surrender ; minsung

guns out

The Alabaster Ringmaster is a gaudy casino nestled between the desert sierras of Earth 446. One can imagine, emerging from the blistering necropolis of fallen civilizations, Blackjack and a Vodka Martini hit all the right spots.

Lee Minho watches the neon lights dawn below his feet as his ship nears landfall. Glass-sharp shrapnel and dust lash through the air, flaring and tangling his trench coat around his legs. His gas mask sounds like crushed cement every time he draws a breath.

His company stands behind him, waiting for his signal. He flicks his hand downward, raises two fingers and pops his thumb. Guns out. Drop now.

He grabs a bungee grip from the ceiling and jumps out of the bay; the cord lets him down easy on the hard, cracked ground. His ship — the Ender, a mass of metal and satellites — shrinks into the reddish-brown sky and its own ashy contrails.

Minho draws his gun and sets it to sonic strike with a flick of his thumb. Shiny silver-coated things, streamlined, the latest technology. He replaced the Ender's arsenal with the excess from their last raid. Waste of money, a companion told him. But he has a taste for the finer things.

"Start countdown," he says into the com in his collar. "Going in."

Commander and company pass under high arches and through gilded doors, into the lobby where they're greeted, as per usual, with screams and general chaos. Nobody move, get down, etcetera. Two of his own stay behind to watch the guests and reception, while Minho leads his band into the glitzy glossy kernel of the casino.

Minho announces his arrival with a sonic blast. A collective scream rings out as every hearing human in the room doubles over, holding their ears. His company fans out across the room while he strides forward, mounts the nearest Baccarat table and peels back his gas mask.

"This," he says, giving the room his warmest smile, "is a robbery. Who's in charge here?"

The tipsy, trembling gamblers stare up at him with that familiar fear in their eyes. Minho tends to elicit that response. He tends to enjoy it. Immensely. Power is well and good where it's useful, scoring a contract with a wealthy buyer or lording it over the duds in the Merchant's Guild, but power for the sake of power — power over the quaver in someone's voice — is nothing short of intoxicating.

No one answers him.

"One more time." He sets his gun to particle burn and fires at a chandelier. It blackens, shrivels and crashes to the floor in a fright of fake crystal. Screams rise again, though he made sure it wouldn't crush anyone. He has enough humanity to keep his raids bloodless, at least until he gets annoyed. "Who's in charge here?"

Finally a supervisor steps forward, a human with no discernible planetary markings. Minho jumps down from the table, holstering his weapon.

"You're who I'm looking for?"

"Yes, Commander Lee."

"Then you know what I'm after."

Just then a sound thunders through the room, another sonic blast. Minho clutches his head against the drum-splitting pain and rounds toward the entrance. An army — no — another merchant band are pouring into the room, weapons trained on the gamblers, on Minho's company — on Minho. They're suited and masked, communicating with hand signals.

First, Minho thinks, oh shit. Then he thinks, oh... shit...

The enemy commander pushes to the front, a gun in each hand. His suit is black as void, made of dense, scaled armour, a sheath to his slight body.

Minho knows it's him before he even has his mask off.

Han Jisung.

Their eyes lock. Minho feels a laugh buck in his chest; Jisung's jaw hardens.